Two months had elapsed since that August evening when, terrified by his brother's sudden and violent death, Edward Duke of York had dictated his will in terms of such abject penitence. The effect of that terror was wearing away. The unseen world, which had come very near, receded into the far distance; and the visible world returned to its usual prominence. And York's aim had always been, not "so to pass through things temporal that he lost not the things eternal," but so to pass towards things eternal that he lost not the things temporal. His own choice proved his heaviest punishment: "for he in his life-time received his good things." It was a terrible battle which that day witnessed at Agincourt. In one quarter of the field Prince Humphrey lay half dead upon the sward; when the King, riding up and recognising his brother, sprang from his saddle, took his stand over the prostrate body, and waving his good battle-axe in his strong firm hand, kept the enemy at bay, and saved his brother's life. In another direction, a sudden charge of the French pressed a little band of English officers and men close together, till not one in the inner ranks could move hand or foot--crushed them closer, closer, as if the object had been to compress them into a consolidated mass. At last help came, the French were beaten off, and the living wall was free to separate into its component atoms of human bodies. But as it did so, from the interior of the mass one man fell to the ground, dead. No one needed to ask who it was. The royal fleurs-de-lis and lions on the surcoat, with an escocheon of pretence bearing the arms of Leon and Castilla--the princely coronet surrounding the helmet--were enough to tell the tale. Other men might come alive out of the fight of Agincourt, but Edward Duke of York would only leave it a corpse. He stands on the page of history, a beacon for all time. No man living in his day better knew the way of righteousness; no man living took less care to walk in it. During the later years of his life, it seemed as if that dread Divine decree might have gone forth, most awful even of Divine decrees--"Let him alone." He had refused to be troubled with God, and the penalty was that God would not be troubled with him: He would not force His salvation on this unwilling soul. And now, when "behind, he heard Time's iron gates close faintly," it was too late for renewing to repentance. He that was unholy must be unholy still. Verily, he had his reward.